


Even Exchange

by marycontraire



Series: Nor Pomp Nor Blare [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 10:19:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15555585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marycontraire/pseuds/marycontraire
Summary: Dean draws Seamus.





	Even Exchange

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think it was possible to write PWP as 90% dialogue, but, hey, even I can be wrong.

“Is it possible to die of embarrassment, do you think?” Seamus asks.

“No, Seamus, it is not,” Dean says decisively.

“That’s disappointing,” Seamus says. “Because, just at this moment, death seems like a really inviting option.”

“This is hardly the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you,” Dean points out. “Remember last summer when you got plastered at your sister’s wedding and threw up in a really expensive flower centerpiece? Or when you tried to ask Padma Patil to go on a date to Hogsmeade and your fly was unzipped the entire time?”

“And yet, this _feels_ more embarrassing.”

“Mmm, I sort of regret not doing color. Did you know that when you’re embarrassed you blush with your whole body?”

“I hope you know that you are my least favorite person in the entire universe. I loathe and despise you and someday I will probably kill you in your sleep.”

Dean laughs, but only briefly. Seamus can’t see his face because he has his eyes closed, but he can practically _hear_ the sound of Dean concentrating over the whirr of the electric fan in Dean’s tiny bedroom. Dean is concentrating on _Seamus._

“I just feel like you’re staring at me really intensely and it’s freaking me out,” Seamus says.

“I _am_ staring at you really intensely. I’m _drawing_ you, you moron. And relax your muscles. When I started the sketch you were relaxed. When you tense up like that it throws off the whole thing.”

“I can’t help it!”

“You’re acting like you’ve never posed for me before. I draw you _constantly_. This isn’t that different.”

“Usually I have my _clothes on.”_

“I’m practicing drawing the human form,” Dean reminds him. “Clothes get in the way.”

“I cannot believe your parents signed you up for a porn drawing class,” Seamus says for about the fifth time this week.

“It’s not a porn drawing class, Seamus. It’s a _Life_ Drawing class. And they mostly did it because they’re trying to schedule me for enough art classes that I don’t have time to see my Carpenters Estate friends.” Dean pauses and then adds darkly, “As if we don’t have bigger things to worry about this summer.”

There’s another moment of quiet, which might last a few minutes or a few years, Seamus isn’t sure. He can feel the pilly fabric of Dean’s comforter, warm under his back. The elbow of the arm that’s folded above his head is touching the West Ham poster on the wall at the head of Dean’s bed. One of his legs, the one closer to the other wall, is bent with his foot planted on the comforter, and Seamus can feel himself sweating at the crease inside the back of his knee. The electric fan is one of those oscillating ones, and every time it turns he can feel the rush of air sweeping from the sweaty fringe on his forehead to the end of the leg that’s lying extended on the bed and then back up again. He’s never been so profoundly aware of his body in his whole entire life.

He’s never been so _hard_ in his entire life. He didn’t predict _that_ when he agreed to model for Dean in exchange for a look inside the sketchbook that’s been magically locked since they learned individualized locking charms last September.

“Has this ever happened in your Life Drawing class, then?” Seamus asks tentatively.

“What, the model getting hard? Can’t say that it has, mate. It probably means you’re an exhibitionist.”

“Fuck you.”

“Probably good practice for me, though. Drawing it like this. Variety in poses or something.”

“Jesus! Why would you _tell_ me that you’re drawing my dick? Is this not awkward enough already?”

“Did you agree to model nude for me and think I _wasn’t_ going to draw your dick? What did you think I was going to do, put a little leaf over it like the Victorians with the classical sculptures?”

“No! Just, you don’t need to _remind_ me of it! I’m trying to think of _literally_ anything else right now, and you’re not helping.”

“Got it. Close your eyes and think of England.”

“I’m Irish.”

“Close your eyes and think of Jesus, then.”

“Now does _not_ seem like an opportune moment to draw Jesus’s attention to me, thanks.”

“Isn’t he meant to be omniscient? He probably knows about all of your embarrassing boners.”

“Fuck you.” 

“You said that already. And you’re tensing your muscles again. Relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” Seamus grumbles, trying to relax back into the comforter. He returns his attention to the whir of the fan and the scratching of Dean’s charcoal. Some kids are shouting swear words at each other outside and Seamus can hear them through the open window. 

“Alright,” Dean says.

“Alright what?” Seamus says.

“Alright, I’m done,” Dean says.

Seamus opens his eyes. In the corner by the door, Dean is standing from the stool behind his easel -- it barely fits in the room -- but he hasn’t taken his eyes off Seamus. Seamus has spent the last several _hours_ just _dying_ to move, and now, suddenly, his body feels frozen in place. It’s like it happens in slow motion: Dean walking across the room, rocking the mattress with his weight as he sits on the edge, reaching out with his hand. Seamus gasps when Dean’s long fingers curl tightly around him. His hand is dry, it has charcoal on it for Christ’s sake, but Seamus is _desperate_ , and all it takes is one, two, three, _four_ long pulls and he’s arching his back and spilling all over Dean’s fingers.

“Gross,” Dean says, reaching for a tissue from the box on his bedside table. He’s so _long_ \-- his arms, his fingers, his back, his legs, _all_ of him. Seamus is mesmerised.

“You got charcoal on my dick, you gobshite,” Seamus says lazily. 

“What’s that? _Thank you,_ Dean, for wanking me off? Why, you’re welcome, Seamus. What good manners you have.”

Seamus snorts. His entire body feels boneless, relaxed into the comforter like it refused to do when Dean was drawing him. “Got to show me your notebook now, you ass,” he reminds Dean.

“You have seventeen minutes to peruse at your leisure,” Dean says.

“Seventeen minutes!” Seamus shouts with righteous indignation, sitting up abruptly. “You said I could have as long as it took you to draw me!”

Dean just points at the digital clock on the bedside table. _2:43,_ it reads. Seamus took his clothes off at 2:26. “Shite,” he says. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean puts one long-fingered hand on Seamus’s bare chest and presses him back down onto the bed. “You want more time, you can always do another pose,” he suggests.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's curious, [this](https://janetsjottings.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/jed2nh300_018986.jpg) is the pose I was envisioning.


End file.
